


Warpaint and Raindances

by seamusdeanforever_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:03:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5062159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seamusdeanforever_archivist/pseuds/seamusdeanforever_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By Lipstickcat</p><p>Applying "war paint" before a quidditch match becomes more meaningful for Dean and Seamus...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warpaint and Raindances

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Cora: this story was originally archived at [Seamus/Dean Forever](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Seamus/Dean_Forever), which I opened in 2002, and which was closed in 2005 when the server that hosted it was closed. To re-open the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2015. An announcement was posted to OTW media channels, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Seamus/Dean Forever archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/seamusdeanforever/profile).
> 
> ***
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
> Not mine, no money being made.
> 
> Author notes: Inspired by linnpuzzle's art - [linnpuzzle's livejournal](http://www.livejournal.com/users/linnpuzzle/147862.html?view=2214550#t2214550)

The first touch of the paint is cool against the skin, falling onto his cheek like a big fat drop of summer rain brought in by the rolling storms. But there is no thunder, no lightening, no cold drip down his face. The gouache paint sits heavily against his skin as Dean grins at the blob of colour and dips his fingers into his palette. Then suddenly his face shifts to absolute seriousness.

An artist, is Dean. Serious creator.

And Seamus hears the rumble in the distance of his mind, gets the feeling that he was wrong, the storm hasn't let arrived.

With an oddly restrained motion, Dean lifts his hand, red clinging to his thumb, green smudged down the length of his finger. His head cocks to the side and he looks at Seamus, really looks at him, taking in his canvas. Seamus can't take his eyes off Dean's as they explore the contours of his face. Vaguely, he wonders when this stopped being a game, when it stopped being "Hey! Lets do your face like war paint for the match!" and started being a work of art.

The flat of Dean's thumb drags over his cheek, smearing the vivid paint across his skin, pulling gently, the heat of the other's blood warming the thick pigment. Through gathering billows of purple grey clouds, Dean's face shines with intense concentration directed purely at Seamus, at his face. Large, deep black pupils following the path his thumb takes as it brushes over his nose, a graceful glide as if he always knew the shape his fingers would trace over the tender flesh beneath his eyes and then up, across the bony bridge.

Mouth set, breath held? There. A brief parting a dark lips, a sharp intake of breath.

Slower down his other cheek. Ball of thumb rolling, pausing, resting, pressing softly, yet so solidly, against Seamus' cheekbone. Hand hovering. The thunder in his head begins to crack. He can feel stray bits of hair catching the green paint on Dean's finger.

And then Dean's eyes leave his thumb, forgetting the paint, and flick up, meeting pale eyes. Seamus can see the lightening flash as those full pupils contract to sharp dots, then expand again. Its so easy to just tilt his head slightly, hair and Slytherine colours bedamned. Red and green smear thickly, messily down the side of his face, it doesn't matter. The storm breaks at last, cool and heavy, and tasting of mouth and tongue and pumpkin juice.

It's a work of art.


End file.
